I remember that big all-nighter in Baton Rouge back in late September of 2008. It was right after the LSU Tigers had laid some very serious whoop-ass on Louisiana Tech, and rumors of an off-campus aftergame party had started to circulate.
It was the usual chain of organizers, a tight-knit little group of partygoers that came together every Saturday night at Trey’s place to drink and dance into the wee hours of the dawn. Trey was one of Laura’s friends, a bit older than the rest of us, owned a house with a hot tub, worked a good-paying job that he didn’t talk about, and loved to party.
I heard in advance that Laura Citron, the party aficionado, would be organizing some special games for this event. And the word on the street was that all the girls would be showing up in their sexiest party attire, which seemed like an odd announcement, since all our female friends wore sexy party outfits 100% of the time. It was an opportunity for them to break away from the humdrum routine of classes and studies, a little shout of girlie freedom into the humid night air.
I recall stepping through the front door, the air thick with the smell of reefer and stale beer, and the bass throbbing so hard that the red Solo cups were vibrating across the sticky coffee table. The energy in the air was electric, and sweat glistened from the exposed breasts of two female dancers, Elsa and Morgan, who’d already taken their tops off, and Rikki, who appeared to have shed everything and was dancing in the buff with her sandy-blonde hair in shambles and sticking to her face.
I’d watched some of the girls dance topless at parties before, and everyone was accustomed to these impromptu topless presentations. Still, Rikki showing her shaved snatch was indeed a new level of development that piqued my interest. Of course, everyone knew that Laura would disappear drunk sometimes and show back up later completely naked, kicking her feet at all the guys’ faces, to showcase her new martial arts skills. But she would only perform like this for a few blurred seconds before crashing under the covers in one of Trey’s bedrooms.
The night was young, only 10 PM, and it looked like Rikki was in it for the long haul. And as I mingled through the drunken crowd, I sensed that something in the atmosphere was a little different, that the female partygoers were signaling a shift in their customary level of party strategy. We were, after all, friends, and nobody was fucking anybody—at least, not yet—but early on, I could sense a sultry shift in the temperature.
The one female party champ who always kept her bra and panties on at college events like this was Ashley Martin, a former high school prom queen from Shreveport, with bleached-blonde hair and hazel eyes. Of all the hotties who showed up for Trey’s weekend bashes, Ashley was the one popular gal that all the horndogs talked about. All the guys wanted to see her voluptuous, porcelain skin unwrapped on the dance floor. But aside from all her confidence and Bohemian-like charm, she always seemed a bit bashful about showing her tits at weekend parties.
As always, she arrived late, wearing pink fishnet stockings and black high-top boots with four-inch heels. Ashley was always the sexiest dancer, and four years of high school gymnastics competition had given her slender legs a smooth, muscular shape that was very easy on the eyes. And before she joined Rikki to bump hips under the disco ball, she kicked off her cumbersome high heels and started to dance barefoot in her pink fishnet stockings, her dark tangles and the burgundy enamel on her smooth toes peeking out through the sheer, webbed fabric.
It was a huge turn-on to watch them bump and grind together under the purple and yellow lights, crouching down like strippers, kicking their legs high like Vaudeville dancers, and struggling to perform the Moon Walk, which was a hoot. And every time Ashley would kick her leg, her skirt would inch up a bit further on her thick praline thighs.
She must’ve known that all the horndogs were watching her, hoping that she’d slip off her denim skirt, so that’s precisely what she did. She stopped dancing, unsnapped the brass snaps, shifted her eyes from side to side, pretending like she was scared to do it, and allowed gravity to do the rest. She stepped one foot out of the skirt, hooked the seam with the toe of the other foot, and flung it across the floor, where it landed in a communal pile of other partygoers’ clothing.
She rejoined Rikki, and the two danced even harder than before. And Ashley, without pausing this time, raised her black lingerie top over her head, lassoed it a couple of rounds, and tossed it onto Abdullah’s head, one of her favorite gay boyfriends who happened to be dancing close by, the silhouette of her thick tangles a dark-faced ghost below the sheer fabric of her fishnets.
This level of undress was the standard for Ashley at most weekend parties. And although the regular guys were accustomed to seeing her half-naked, it was frustrating, too, because all the straight guys wanted to see her DD breasts unshackled from the black bra and bouncing free.
I was slumped against the wall, watching the sexy post-game show, and craving another drink when lo and behold, Laura Citron strolled by, holding a tray of Jello shots, her bronze DD breasts with their white doppelgänger bikini prints bouncing free for all the gawkers’ eyes to see clearly. She joked and laughed, her big tits jostling with each giggle, as she served us drinks. And as she walked away, she paused next to Ashley and whispered something in her ear, and the two of them strolled away arm-in-arm and disappeared into the bathroom.
Rikki continued her wild naked dance, cupped her C-cup breasts, and began to move her slender hips in a figure-eight pattern. And by this time, Pauline and Nicole had joined in, removed their tops, and were dancing alongside Rikki, Elsa, and Morgan, as if five topless girls dancing at an aftergame party were better than three. The loud bass pounded through the floorboards, and the pungent reefer smoke mingled with the chlorine bleach from the hot tub, rising high into the mascot-colored lights reflected from the portable disco ball suspended in the smoky haze above.
The bathroom door swung open, and the cool neon light from inside spilled across the dance floor. Ashley and Laura reappeared, bare-assed naked with their elbows locked under the cool, luminous glow. And as they began to move, taking gradual, confident steps toward the dance floor, the entire room exploded into an avalanche of whistles and cheers.
Ashley was naked for the very first time in front of her friends. And although she was likely terrified on the inside, on the outside, she waggled her smooth, apple-shaped ass with the regal confidence of a Burgundy Street stripper. She planted her porcelain feet firm against the sticky surface of Trey’s party room floor, her jasmine pelvic tattoo, and dark, heart-shaved tangles—two personal features that I’d only heard her previous boyfriends describe—catching the gold and purple colors in the disco ball.
Sweat beaded on Ashley’s nude chest as she shifted from leg to leg and jiggled her DD breasts. Her tousled blonde hair was a tiger’s riot raging around her high cheekbones, as she flashed her frozen prom-queen smile, one-upping Rikki’s sexy moves by humping her hand, letting her manicured finger slip inside before sucking it through her glossy lips.
All the guys on the dance floor closed in and formed a circle around Ashley, Laura, and Rikki to get a better angle on the naked show. And I remember one tall black guy, Tyrell, who was an excellent disco dancer, stepping in and dancing alongside Ashley. He traded ass bumps, grabbed her hand, and spun her around—even smacked her ass a few times. But as soon as the action got hot to trot, Ashley disappeared again through the sliding door with Laura.
Outside, the party had taken a more explicit turn. There were a few couples partially undressed and fucking on towels and chairs along the hedgeline. Ashley was strolling around bare-assed naked with a Solo-cup in one hand and a cigarette in the other, talking and laughing with her college pals like she was on break between classes at school. The chlorine bleach from the hot tub filled the humid Louisiana night air as Ashley padded along the warm cement deck on her well-manicured feet, her nipples rosebud peaks, and her burgundy toenails glinting under the multi-colored string lights that formed a canopy overhead.
With one hand on the wheel, I decided to make my way toward Ashley and strike up a conversation. I already knew her from a gazillion weekend parties at Trey’s party palace and one public speaking class at LSU, but I’d never spoken to her in the buff. It’s funny how a woman being naked changes everything.
But no sooner than I said hello, Ashley and I were kissing by the hot tub. She smelled like hairspray, beer, and cigarettes, and I remember how she kissed the old-fashioned way, with little or no tongue-swapping. And I wasn’t sure if I liked it, but I’d never allowed the lack of a bit of tongue-swapping to interfere with getting laid before.
She said, “C’mon,” grabbed my hand, and pulled me closer to the hot tub, where her longtime friends, Pauline and Matt, were soaking nude and watching the party. She leaned over, propped her manicured hands against the side of the tub—elbows locked and tits jostling—lit another cigarette, and began telling the story about her unexpected crowning as prom queen in high school and how nervous she was about giving her speech.
As her story unfolded, she giggled, blew smoke, and flashed intermittent side-smiles in my direction, followed by a series of short little ass-humps that signaled to me that I should move in behind her, and I did. I positioned myself behind her upraised white ass, gazed down at the dark tangles peeking out from between her praline legs, and began smoothing my nervous hands over her white curves.
She was explaining that part of the story where she lost her dress and danced with her naked girlfriends in her bra and panties at the after-prom party, when she started moving her ass up and down, and side to side, nudging her naked cheeks against the bulge in my crotch, like it was the most natural thing in the world. So . . . I reached down, hooked my fingers in the crook of her torso, and thrust forward, pushing the hard bulge in my shorts deep into the crack of her ass.
And if memory serves me correctly, I think I had one of the fullest erections I can ever recall that night. Without even considering the number of people meandering around us, I unbuckled my belt. I let the buckle click onto the concrete, shoved down my Hanes underwear, and crammed my pulsing cock deep inside of her with one single thrust.
It was the most incredible feeling, shoving my shaft belly-deep inside of her like that without a condom, and for a brief second, I hoped that she was on the pill. The sensation was like dipping my cock into a warm bowl of homemade clam chowder. And as I moved against her backside, she never wavered from her storytelling, but continued to drag on her cigarette, blow smoke, and giggle with Pauline and Matt.
She maintained the semi-circles with her ass, moving side to side and up and down, giving me an ass massage as we fucked. And when I came, which only took me about twenty or thirty strokes, she lifted her rosy heels and pushed back hard against my torso, which allowed my hot cum to drain deep inside of her.
My body shuddered for a few blissful seconds, and when I pulled out and backed away, Pauline and Matt started clapping and cheering. And all I could do was stand there with my cock still hard and swinging side to side, a string of cum dripping from the tip, and my only hope was that my college pals were not bystanders to me banging Ashley by the hot tub.
But as fate would have it, that was not the case. All my friends watched me fuck Ashley that night, and I still hear about it from guys at school to this very day. “Man, you were all up in her sweet pussy that night by the hot tub! You had some mutha-fuckin’ game going on!”
All I remember is that we fucked by the hot tub. And after we finished, Ashley continued to stroll around the patio barefoot and naked, with her Solo-cup and a cigarette, as if nothing unusual had occurred. And I remember seeing traces of my cum leaking down her inner thigh and glistening under the string lights overhead, and how she totally ignored it, making no effort to wipe it away.
Later, I saw her disappear through the sliding door again, and I thought that maybe she had gone to the bathroom to clean away my cum, so I put my shorts back on and continued to stroll around the patio. I visited with old friends, stood with my arms folded, and surveyed some of the sexy games that Laura had coordinated. My cock was still hard and straining against my belt buckle.
Laura had taken the names of select male participants and shuffled them into a leopard-print hat, and whoever’s name got drawn out of the hat first determined which guy got to feel her pussy for a count of twenty seconds—the seconds counted on a stopwatch, of course. And nobody was allowed to squirt. Any guy who squirted in her would be disqualified. Immediately.
I remember not participating in this game. But I did watch a lot of my horny guy friends stick it to Laura in a herky-jerky, merry-go-round sort of way for several minutes before I decided that I’d watched enough of my friends finish themselves off by hand, and went back inside the house.
And as I passed by the kitchen, I happened to glance in, and there was Ashley, hunkered over the counter, naked as hell, standing on the balls of her porcelain feet, her legs in a wide V-stance, and her DD breasts scrunched against the countertop. Trey was positioned behind her, his hips moving in smooth, deliberate thrusts against her backside, eyes closed, and his head tossed back. And Ashley’s forearms were braced against the countertop, a cigarette in one hand, and she was carrying on a conversation with a fully clothed couple on the opposite side of the counter.
I stood in the doorway and watched the pond ripple across her pale, naked skin with each of Trey’s forward thrusts, and my cock started to get hard again. My eyes traced the smooth, muscular lines of her legs, pausing on her burgundy-enameled toenails, her smooth, white toes braced against the mosaic tile floor, pink at the tips. And she only made a tiger’s face once—placing her palms flat on the countertop for support—when Trey exploded inside of her.
I might’ve contributed to the creation of a monster that night. But then again, maybe monsters are born that way. You’ll have to decide.
The last thing I remember from that night is Ashley standing naked next to me by the front door as I was preparing to leave. She smelled like reefer, sex, and cigarettes as she leaned on my shoulder, looked up at me with her witch-hazel eyes, and whispered in my ear, “Do you like getting naked at every party? Coz, I like it.”
She stretched up on her burgundy-enameled tiptoes and pushed her mouth against mine, hard but with no tongue-swap, and I happened to notice the small, adorable freckles around her cheekbones for the very first time. She pinched my fly, spun away from me—the loose ends of her blonde hair whipping across my face—and walked back towards the dance floor.
I stood and watched her naked ass cheeks oscillate—boom-da-boom—as she disappeared into the fray of dancing bodies, and I replayed over again in my mind how fine it felt to have my cock inside of her by the hot tub. I closed the door behind me, listened to the throbbing pulse of bass sounds fade behind me as I walked under a street lamp and unlocked my car. And I haven’t seen Ashley Martin since.
